


to rest, here and now,  on the fulcrum of our weary deliverance

by faorism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Confessions, Dean Winchester Confesses Feelings for Castiel, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, First Time, Fix-It, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sam Gets A Goodbye Too, Sappy, Team Free Will (Supernatural), The Eponymous Fulcrum Is Castiel's Rusty Nail If You Know What I'm Sayingggg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: it shouldn't have been enough. but it was. (in which a ninja star saves the day so team free will can have the happy ending they fucking deserve.)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 132





	to rest, here and now,  on the fulcrum of our weary deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> _havent watched spn in eight years beyond the finale but judging by what flies for canon nowadays, i decided to not let that little fact stop me from writing a fix-it drabble. we were all robbed, y'all, and im sorry to all the diehards who kept going strong for all this time when the rest of us bowed out._
> 
> _hopefully this fic can be as much a balm for y'all as it was for me._
> 
> _btw this fic assumes that you are very familiar with cas' confession in s15e18. to further set the stage, jack deus ex machina'd cas back to existence at the end of s15e19, and as will be made obvious, the boys haven't talked about the confession like the repressed assbutts we grew to love, tease, and (now) miss outside the lives they will live on in fic._   
> 

Between the three of them, the rest of the night should've been easy rolling. 

It was, in a way. Only took them a quick fifty minutes to find the kids, clean themselves up, ready disposal of the double-dead meatbags, and make a tactical drop-off of the now-orphaned boys at the station. In and out, wham bam thank you ma'am, the monster of the week put down, and somehow, a loose end that no one remembered needed tying up went ahead and did just that in a neat little headless bow. 

— 

(Like, come on. Jenny, of all people… _seriously_?)

— 

There's an itch in Dean's side, though, that is aching something strong, and it's not just the lockjaw risk of a scratch dug across his ribs. 

Well, it's that. But it's also the strange heaviness lingering after the fight, like an inhale caught between him, Sam, and Cas as they ride through the night to get as far outta dodge as they can. It's the same breath stolen since the moment Cas ripped whatever post-resurrection grace Jack snuck behind and used it to fling a shuriken at the final killer clown vamp's calf. Had to be some kind of miracle, because there shouldn't have been enough time to aim it, what with Cas' reflexes adapting to humanity for the millionth time. 

Even well-aimed, the force shouldn't have been enough to make an impact on the emo juggalo's trajectory as he charged at Dean. But it did the trick. Made the goon tip just left enough—just a few tiny inches enough. 

Damn, Cas shouldn't have even _had_ the ninja star in the first place: he only pocketed it when Sam walked away, Castiel's touch sly but unafraid as he stole it from between Dean's agile-turned-stone fingers.

A not-flirt flirt. A not-touch touch. 

A gentle echoed affirmation of Castiel's confession, and a utilitarian acceptance of what is and was, all at once.

There have been a lot of these touches lately.

(There have always been those kinds of touches.)

— 

The distance between where the nail cut into Dean and where it would've impaled his spine is smaller than the "wrong choice" peanut Bowie Sam waved earlier in the night. And ain't that just _something_. 

(…The itch worsens.)

Dean might have to accidentally lose that knife over the side of a bridge next time he does inventory.

— 

He has driven with less sleep in rougher shape for far longer, but Dean hits his limit twenty minutes after the Illinois border. 

It's hard to find his voice after a long drive in silence but Dean manages as he pulls into the first motel with vacancies he sees. "Hey, Sammy," Dean says as he rolls Baby to a stop, "find out the rates and where we can find the greasiest breakfast burger in town for the morning." 

Dean's hands are locked on the steering wheel, thumbs whittling into the leather. He doesn't make to move except to glance at Cas in the rearview mirror.

Blue eyes stare back. Unflinchingly.

Dean looks away. Ahead. (Away.)

— 

(Itch.)

— 

Sam's response comes after a beat too long to be anything other than shrewd, his curiosity at the emotional undercurrent in the car pushing calculations through that big head of his at a mile a minute. Finally: "You're disgusting." It's a throwaway stock reply of a little brother, not quite halfhearted but also not making an effort to press Dean. 

With a "Cas, don't forget my bag, alright? Must've slipped under your seat," Sam leaves them alone.

— 

The Impala's headlights shine on a wall that has seen better days. Even at night, Dean can tell a waxen muddy peach covers the expanse of the motel's chipped exterior: the kind of brownish pink that reminds Dean of the linoleum kitchen floors in most decaying Midwest suburbs. They're in the same houses with wood-paneled living rooms, a doily under the remote canister, and at least two well-worn cat towers. The bathrooms would have eggshell- or lavender-colored, artfully arranged, look-don't-use hand towel displays that Dean took great pleasure in disrupting and— 

"Dean, you need rest."

For all their touches, they haven't talked much in the last two months, since Cas came back. Not since… 

"I need…" 

Dean's mouth goes dry. 

There's so much to say. There's too much to say. 

"Yes?"

Cas wasn't by Dean's side at the moment of walking away from God and all that was promised—all that ever could and may have been—to pursue this, here, now and tomorrow in his mortal life. This is it. This is free will, and free will almost got him killed in the most mediocrely boring way possible but it was free will and that should mean something, right? And it should mean something that there's nothing—actually, there's _nothing and no one_ now holding him back from… from… 

Dean knows what is right there in front of him, but he can't make his coward mouth put out the words he needs to. 

Instead, teeth drag against clenched teeth. 

Dean wants to tear apart his side.

He swallows. Hard.

Tries.

"We need to talk."

Cas lets out a little huff that's more laugh than scoff. "I believe we are currently fulfilling th—"

"No." With all of Dean's nationally renowned eloquence, he finishes with a stunning and frustrated, "We got shit to settle."

His eyes laser onto Castiel's in the rearview as Cas tilts his head in confusion. "Would it not be more effective to debrief with Sam?"

"Buddy, listen to me." It is not lost on Dean, the irony of the difficulty he's having at not making minced meat out of his words. But Castiel has to understand, he has to, he knows Dean… must have felt the profound joy that ran through Dean after Cas was sprung out of super hell. Cas has to know what's coming… "I need to… I'm ready to _talk_. Feelings talk."

"You aren't m—" 

Realization strikes hard. Fast. Wicked. If Dean hadn't been Clockwork Orange flashbacking the latest (and if he can help it, last) time he lost Cas, the expressions on Castiel's face would have petrified him as they once had. Now, they only flood Dean's ears with a panicked yet anticipatory heartbeat. 

Flickering menacingly in the dim illumination filtering in through the windshield, Castiel's expressions now twist openly, so vulnerable as Cas has too often been with Dean in the past few years. There—in pulled and beautiful wrinkles—is sorrow and hope and ease and fear and more emotions than Dean can ever hope to name beyond to describe that same jumble within himself. The pink around those big blues fall fallow from exhaustion and shock. Earlier's muddy peachness seems to find a new home as shadows fall on Castiel's lips as they draw themselves wide. 

— 

(A sudden and wildly inappropriate thought: Dean's teeth sinking into those lips, biting back into them a tender red haze.) 

— 

"I don't know what to say." 

"If you—if it's too much… We don't have to tonight. I wasn't even meaning tonight, really. I don't want to pressure you into anything. I just figured we should eventually and—"

"Stop." A soft rustle sounds as Cas moves around the backseat, digging around. A bag comes up in Dean's periphery. "Bring this to Sam, and leave the room keys at the desk. I… I will follow when I'm ready."

"Got it."

— 

Sam doesn't mention Dean bringing him his bag. Nor does Sam question Dean when he asks for three singles, though that's the second most expensive configuration available. He hits his limit, however, when Dean walks him to his room and then hovers at the entrance.

"What's up?" Sam asks, leaning against the threshold of his room, bag tucked inside.

"Nothing, man."

Sam's stinkface communicates quite clearly that he won't let this lie.

"He needs a breather."

"I guessed that. I left you two alone for three minutes."

"And? 

"And you managed to piss him off?"

No. 

Yes. 

"Nah. Long day, is all." Dean glances over his shoulder. Across the parking lot, Dean can just make out Cas meandering by the garden at the pull-in from the highway. "He's just being Cas."

"Well," Sam draws out. "If that's all you're going to say about it… fine. I'm going to finish my homework. If you want to help me practice…" 

Working with Sam on his signing would be a good distraction. Sam went full blown with his lessons having enrolled for an accelerated online course. Meanwhile, Dean's been focused on the job search, so he's been putting off his own studies—but he knows he wants to. Will. For Sam and Eileen and also just because it's all around a good idea.

A part of Dean desperately wants to join Sam and avoid whatever mess awaits him if Castiel wants to find him tonight. Dean feels guilty that he's tempted even though he was the one that dropped the bombshell on Cas; the self-flagellation here is familiar and warm and grounding in the worst of ways. Dean could also drag out the inevitable for as long as possible if he tells Sam the truth; he'll have to suffer through the scolding. At least then he might be able to get some advice afterward. 

(Another glance: Castiel has found a bench. He's slumped, staring up at the stars.)

Then again, if (...once) Sam finds out all the details of him and Castiel, Sam is going to fucking throttle him for being an idiot. 

"I think I'd better wash off. Smelling like a barn ain't my idea of a study hour."

"Fair." Sam opens the door to his room. Takes a step in. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow then?"

What comes out next is not what Dean intends to say: "You know I'll always be by your side."

"Huh?" Concern furrows Sam's brows as he stops short.

"If… if you need me, right? I'm there." 

Sam crosses his arms, more thoughtful than defensive. "Of course." 

Sam doesn't know about the job application Dean's got in his room. Sam doesn't know about Dean's Indeed account, or Dean's call with an honest to God career coach last month, or the help on his resume he recruited from the nice librarian two towns over. Doesn't know about the throwaway credit card Dean set up specifically to complete something called a StrengthsFinder Assessment just because it sounded interesting and hey, maybe it was nice for once to be told he was _Restorative_ even if it was by a multiple choice quiz?

"That fight really did a number on you, huh," Sam adds when Dean doesn't say anything else.

Yes… and no.

"Just… things feel like they're changing, y'know?" Dean's changing. "It's been only two months but the big jobs are drying up. Hunters are actually networked now. Connected. Keeping tabs not to gossip, but to really help each other out. The pacing… it's getting smoother. Settling." Dean's heart, thudding too hard in his chest. "Wrapping up." Castiel, and whatever lies between them. "Even so, no matter what—I just… you gotta know, I've got your back. Because—"

— 

Here, there should be a joke. A pissy little comment. 

But it's been a few scant hours since the vamp had Dean in his grasp, and at the moment when the nail's point made contact with his skin, all he could remember was standing outside Sam's dorm door all those years ago. So many _literal_ lifetimes ago. 

Because if Sam had told him then to get lost or get dead as Dean feared, Dean knows… he wouldn't have lasted the month. Died daddy's little blunt instrument, anonymous and forgotten, without having known anything else. Then for a while, they were everything to each other and still are, but the sickening codependency has changed: healed. They have others in their lives, in a way that _welcomes_ people to stay. Dean has a _dog_.

And Dean knows that whatever happens after he and Cas have their talk… things are gonna be different. In a way he can't anticipate, and something about the not-knowing… it's starting to feel exciting. Frighteningly wondrous. 

—

"I love you. I really do."

There's no desperation in his voice. No terror. No death rattle. No sarcasm. No flippancy. It may be the first time in a very, very long time that he's said those words to Sam without emotional pretense. Maybe it's the first time.

The soft smile he gets in return makes Dean think it's the latter. "I love you too." 

—

Sam's eyes glow with emotion, their shine wise but not distant. Jesus—he's Dean's baby brother but he ain't no boy no more.

It always messes Dean up: just when did Sam go ahead and grow up?

And hell, if he's regarding mortality and age, when did _Dean_ get so damn old?

—

(He never thought he would live this long.)

— 

(Until two months ago, he survived day in and day out with the grim certainty that tomorrow was never his to claim. 

Now, though…

Now…) 

—

Dean coughs, overcome. "I'm gonna—" Dean knocks a thumb behind him. 

"Sure. Let me know if you need help with the stitches."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean slugs Sam in the shoulder. "Don't mother hen me now."

Sam rolls his eyes, "Sweet dreams." Then there's a smirk as he slams the door on Dean and slips out a quick "Jerk" as the lock engages.

…Oh the fucking _weasel._

Dean tries at the handle and obviously can't turn it. With more strength than may be called for, he punches the door crying, "Bitch!" and flips the peephole off for good measure.

As he walks away, he swears he can hear Sam's rumbling laughter through the thin muddy peach plaster.

— 

Over the spray of his scalding hot shower, he didn't hear the front door open, so as he exits the bathroom, Dean jumps at Castiel's voice cutting over the din of the motel central heating.

"Hello, Dean."

"Cas…"

"Thank you for securing an extra room. It was thoughtful of you."

Castiel sits on the bed still decked out in his hunter gear. Dean feels underdressed in his sweats and a thin tee, but ultimately he's extremely happy he brought a change of clothes into the bathroom instead of walking out in the buff. Dean honestly didn't think Cas would have sought him out so soon, if at all tonight.

"Like I said, not here to make you feel uncomfortable." Feeling awkward waffling by the bathroom door, Dean goes to sit on the desk just feet away. "Didn't want to presume after I—I guess I ambushed you. Sorry."

Castiel grimaces. "It's fine. The timing was a surprise, but I sensed it was on the horizon." 

"We can go at your own pace. I just thought…"

— 

(Quiet falls.

The bedside lamp casts a soft ochre glow that bathes Castiel in ethereal stillness. It's a familiar one, found so long ago in an autumn dreamscape Dean remembers more as instinct than memory. The humble beauty feels like something straight out a Renaissance painting, and the near uncanniness of it—of Cas—strikes him stupid. 

He loves Cas.

Utterly. 

Completely.

How could he not?)

— 

"Well? What have you to say?"

The crack in Cas' voice startles Dean from wherever he drifted off to. It's then Dean hears how Castiel's breathing has gone thin. How he draws into himself. Looks at his hands. Clenches them into fists.

Waiting. 

Pissed?

Something's off. But what? What did Dean miss? He flounders, "Seriously, if now's a bad time…" 

"I appreciate your flexibility, but there won't be a _good_ time to spare my feelings. Please, make it quick so I may sleep."

— 

Dean only realizes right then that—Dean? Yeah, he's a fucking _asshole_. 

Dean's a selfish little prick who sometimes can't pull his head out his ass long enough to realize his impact? Nowhere near his intention. He was so wrapped up on internalizing Cas' confession, he never gave Cas a hint that he was wrong about Dean. And now that Dean finally tried to start the conversation, he's only told Cas they need to talk; thinking back at his constipated attempts at language earlier, Dean hasn't given Castiel any indication of what about. Or rather, what Dean might possibly have to say. Cas has already long dismissed any possibility of requited feelings. 

Died using his last words to say as much.

Perhaps Castiel (as Dean would do in his shoes) has been readying himself for an awkward conversation. A "well-meaning" kind rejection. An affirmation of friendship and brotherly love—only. A hapless _no homo!_ denial. Anything. 

_Fuck_.

Cas has already said so much. He's waited too long. 

It'd be unfair… no, it would be unjust and cruel to make him wait any longer.

— 

(And, on any other day, Dean suspects his voice would catch on the depth of the truth.

It has for years now.

It had when he needed it not to the most: at Castiel's confession—his dying words a protective chant, his affirmations an anointed blessing that Dean lost himself in. 

He didn't know Cas could… could feel… could really…

He was a fool.

He was a fool for wasting the past two months, aching during sleepless nights as he convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, he deserved to be loved.

The sense-memory of just how profoundly Dean could—and has—fucked this up is not a literal stake to his chest but he is still pierced by the raw jolt of his own previous silence… silences… they hurt. Jesus, they hurt so much, more than being thrown to the floor like a sand bag and more than most of the injuries long-scarred across Dean's body. 

But now, today, things are changing, just as Dean told Sam. Dean's side is literally in stitches because he—who took out fucking _God_ like ten weeks ago—was almost killed by an evil mime and Chekhov's rusty nail. Anything can happen on a day like today, this day that started with pie and also mourning of all Jack couldn't zap back and John's journals somehow with Baby pulling through for what has to be her millionth and a half mile, plus Sam, his Sammy, there at his side… 

Something about this, after two months of easy work and no Big Bad on the horizon and no deus ex machina laying in wait to fanfiction the shit out of his life— 

This—with fucking everyone who came back with less than a blink of an eye: a mere phasing in and out… and the world was back again. 

Came back better—even—because they finally stayed the writer's hand.

…And that's it, isn't it?

The difference. 

They have free will. 

Free fucking will.

Everyone's back and truly _free_. Dean and Sam, Eileen and Charlie and Stevie, Adam and Garth, Miracle, Jody and Claire and Patience and Donna and the rest of the Wayward girls. Bobby. Rowena, in a way [not that she's complaining; girl is _living_ as Queen of Hell with her infinite supply of curl smoothie and flowy satin wrap dresses]. Jack, in his [and only because _apparently_ he's drafting up some super secret projects to close out Chuck's legacy before he can fully slum it with them apes]. And, of course—) 

— 

"Cas, no. It ain't like that." 

It's _easy_ in a way it could never be before to get up from the table. To cross the room. To kneel down at Castiel's feet, even with the itch at his side. 

"Cas, how don't you know?"

Their eyes meet for a confrontation with blue and an exaltation of possibility.

"Over the last few months—hell—in the last few years, I kept asking myself: how can you see me so clearly like no one else and still miss this?" Castiel jumps to interrupt but Dean steamrolls on. "No, you had your monologue. Give me this, because who knows when I'll be ready to chick flick your ass again." Cas lets out a small amused huff, haunted by hope, while Dean's voice starts to shake wet and terrible but sure. "And that's the thing. I know I make it hard to read me but, Cas, Cas, man, you've pieced me together so many times in so many ways you must have a blueprint. You say you changed 'cause of me, but I've been changed by you. I've been made by your hand. You stripped my soul bare, you built my hope back, and you took care of me and mine and let me take care of you and yours and—eventually—it all became _ours_. I'm only the man in front of you because we've been sharing our lives together—in a team with Sam then with him and Jack, and in a family with them and the rest, but there was always this undercurrent… something just ours. 

"I thought you didn't notice because you simply couldn't, your big angelic blues seeing beyond a puny human with his puny human feelings. I understood. I was miserable, but I understood. At least when I had you, I had you. And yeah, you're right, there's happiness in just the being. With you at my side, I had some measure of it. I am learning the part about the saying; need some practice on that bit. But. But, Cas, I know one thing…" 

It's _easy_ to take a risk: to raise his hands slowly to Cas'. His thumbs whisper for permission against the fists they find, and the rest of Dean's fingers follow as Castiel slowly opens for him. 

"Happiness can be in the _having_ , too."

Cas' thunderous gasp only steadies Dean's resolve. 

"I wanna learn what that kind of happiness looks like—with you."

There's peace in the ease of Dean's hands sliding into Castiel's. 

Clutching. 

Holding heartbeats sunk into palms like psalms.

"Dean, I beg of you." An undeniable Enochian register deepens Castiel's solemnity. "In this, you must not tease me. You mustn't—"

"I wouldn't dare."

—

(It's _easy_ , finally here and only just now, to choose this—)

— 

"I love you."

"Oh, _Dean_."

This is how he learns his name can be as a benediction once Dean knows to listen.

— 

Lips touch lips in a kiss not-kiss: a sharing of breath held too long.

Break.

Return. Oh—an actual kiss. 

Then harder. But sweeter, too. 

Dean's teeth sink into Cas' lips, nipping back into them a tender red haze.

( _Please_.)

—

Dean wishes he could spend all night kneeling at Cas' feet. The way Castiel hunched over him, maneuvering their locked hands behind Dean's neck to draw the kiss deeper: Dean's definitely had this dream before.

Issue is, though, the dream? It never accounted for his old knees. 

"Cas," Dean says between kisses. "My legs are falling asleep." 

Castiel laughs and lets go of Dean's hands. He pats the bed. "Care to join me?" 

"I'd like that." 

—

(Dean has never been more thankful for the emergency 3mL lube bottle he keeps in his to-go bag.)

—

Dean imagined sex with Cas endlessly over the years. Favorite fantasies included hate fucks and life-affirming handjobs and "educational" tutelage of the sexual variety; methodical mind-controlled drilling into Dean's ready mouth; wings and glowing eyes, shredded clothes and being lifted like a doll. Weird hentai shit and kinks, lots of kinks. A panty here and a hearty slap across his ass there. Biting and nails dug into skin, pinned wrists and Cas fucking him like he's trying to nail Dean to the mattress. The aforementioned kneeling.

…Maybe they'll get around to those last few.

The fantasies were there. But the longer he knew the guy and the more profound their profound bond got, the rarer it became that Dean followed through on actually jerking it to Cas. It felt weird. Invasive, and too intimate. Too desperate. 

It also depressed the fuck out of Dean.

In all the times he did indulge, he never allowed himself to play through the sweet. The tender.

Nothing like this.

— 

A kiss to his collarbone—

—

—hum against his jaw—

—

—flush of his cheeks— 

—

—slip of clever fingers— 

—

—heat.

—

(Dean loves Cas so, so much.)

—

Kiss.

—

Moan.

—

Touch.

— 

His soul and all of who he is pressed to his skin in a freckled flush, his very life blood rushing to get close—close—closer to Castiel. 

—

Hands on Dean's hips, drawing him close—close—closer— 

— 

"Tell me—"

(Dean doesn't fully know what he's saying, or why he feels so listless over this need for reassurance.

But he knows it's right. He's right.)

"I love you."

"Please." 

(He needs this.)

"Anything." 

—

Inhale.

Exhale. 

—

"I want—"

"Anything." 

(What's compelling Dean now may be a slip in the timestream or some other Star Trek crap; it feels like it. Or maybe a near hysterical acid reflux from his core churning toward his throat. Maybe it's the exact edge of desperation that only cuts across prayers screamed in mounting hallelujah.)

Dean doesn't know if he can form sentences. But he must, he has to, he—"Tell me… tell me I can have this. I can—that it's okay to— "

"Yes, Dean. I'm yours."

(That would be an edge—a cliff—a knife's blade—that Dean is too familiar with. He's lived his entire life there so far. It's the same cut of gritty fingernails once digging into his scalp, cupped palms close as if that alone could hold Cas' confession tight to his skin.)

Tears spring to his eyes. "Oh, oh Cas, please—"

(He stayed curled on the floor in the dark for hours.

Willing himself to see what Cas saw.

Willing himself to understand.)

—

Deep, deeper. 

— 

(Willing.

Wanting.)

—

"Dean—yes. Of course—of—!"

Wet heat rushes into him.

(He's wanted this for so long…)

He tightens around the flood in its tremors, desperate for more. 

(So so long…)

—

Hand to his cock.

—

Gone. 

—

Inhale.

Exhale.

—

Kisses flutter around Dean's sweaty forehead—a mantra pressed to his skin as he comes back to being. _It's okay_ and _I have you_ and _you're okay_ and _breathe_ and sometimes just a confessional through his name: _Dean_.

Amazing how just about anything can sound like _I love you_ , once Dean knows to listen. 

(He didn't know he could have this…)

Language is funny that way.

— 

As Cas will have to learn to tolerate, when he can have his way, Dean is a cuddler.

And the little spoon.

And very, very needy post-orgasm.

He has demands, and they involve an arm wound round his waist, his butt to a pelvis, and little butterfly kisses to his spine.

These are very, very important demands.

And as Dean has learned and will have to bully Cas into loosening up his standards around, Castiel can't fucking lay there in the wet spot and _be_ for a damn moment.

To be fair, they're rank. Covered in jizz and BO and spit and lube—blood, too, maybe, if his stitches split. The sheets are sweat-through and pulled from their corners. Cas reminds Dean they have a clean bed in the third single. But Dean ain't moving nowhere, what with him shuddering and fucked out of his goddamn mind, and he won't let Cas leave him either: just him reaching to turn off the lamp was enough to send Dean whining. 

Dean brought the lube; he can't be faulted for forgetting the come rag. 

At Dean's cajoling suggestion, Cas relents and fashions one from a pillowcase but only after he gets Dean to swear to remember to tip cleaning staff well if Castiel forgets to in the morning. He dutifully cleans up the best he can without moving more than two inches from Dean—the saint. 

It takes them a moment to sort things out, but eventually, they both are satisfied. 

— 

(A hand rises up Dean's side to curl around his left bicep to pull him closer, holding tight in its grip an echo of what was and—now—what always will be.)

— 

"G'night, Cas."

"Sleep well, Dean."

—

Hush.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _i figured if the finale started by showing them waking up, i might as well put their weary heads to rest one last time._   
> 
> 
>   
> _the "projects" mentioned that jack is working on would totally be some of the ones described in the awesome fic[There'll Be Peace When You Are Done](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664565) by [morganofthefairies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganofthefairies/pseuds/morganofthefairies), wherein [SPOILER] jack jailbreaks all the fan favorite demons and angels to help rebuild heaven and hell. i like this version better because it implies a council, rather than a one-entity dictatorship which is what got us here in the first place._  
> 


End file.
